


Five Things About Richard Goranski.

by growlithes



Category: Be More Chill
Genre: M/M, also low key trans michael bc :/ he’s a good kid sharon, expensive headphones, guys it’s so gay like so so gay, let them ! be soft ! u animals !, porn w slight plot bc i can’t write porn but plot? love plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 10:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11965125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlithes/pseuds/growlithes
Summary: Michael’s started to realize a lot of things about Rich.





	Five Things About Richard Goranski.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my. first ever smut fic As You Can Tell so please just...bear with me, guys. also: you can pry soft rich from my dead gay hands. they’ve been through a lot, let them have this.

There were a lot of things, that Michael was beginning to notice about Richard Goranski.

He was kind of upset, he never got to know him better freshman year. Ghosting the halls, Michael could vaguely recall seeing traces of him everywhere — an old, worn out green backpack in the hall; the flash of red in the cafeteria when he glanced up; a homework sheet he’d accidentally left on his desk. Maybe, things could have been different, then. Maybe, their friendship wouldn’t have felt so awkward to begin with, or uncomfortable. The year and a half of bullying, when Rich had risen to the top (scrambling up jagged rock, scars still evident from his trek) had left Michael wary at first, and yeah, information on the SQUIP certainly helped to alleviate the awkwardness, but he still felt wary at times around him.

Or, had, anyway.

From that hospital room, their friendship blossomed, slowly but steadily. Michael came to visit when no one else did; even left him a little friend to keep him company (even if, at the time, he hadn’t been able to interact with it). He made a habit out of visiting him at least three times a week, when he wasn’t busy with work or anything like that. Over time, he learned his favorite candy bar, what kind of food he liked, his preferred beverage, and things along those lines — and he brought him them, on occasion, and he made a point to insist that it wasn’t out of sympathy. Rich never seemed to believe him.

When he was finally out was when things really started to advance. They weren’t on Jeremy and Michael’s level at all, but they had established a level of comfort and understanding that differed from the rest of their group. Rich found a second home in Michael’s basement, where he was safe from the burdens he had to carry on his own at the Goranski household; he could be loud, he didn’t have to be scared, and he could finally relax and sleep in peace, if only for a night. And Michael found solace in the company, in the feeling of not being alone and having someone who, while they seldom spoke about their issues so bluntly and without care, he could relate to. Who understood.

But with the frequent visits to his basement, and the nights spent laughing about nothing as they filled their lungs with smoke (good smoke, familiar smoke, smoke that didn’t leave them sobbing and seeing red), he picked up on a few things that he’d never noticed before. That he really wish he’d seen sooner. Five things, five simple things, that made him realize just how fucked he was.

 

ONE: He had very pretty eyes.

Between thick thighs, Michael pinned his hips down; savoring the feeling of fingers threading through his hair, as he worked the other to the edge. In the dimness of the room, he caught a glimpse of those dark eyes — pupils blown wide, making them seem almost black. They were so clouded, breath starting to become ragged as Michael offered a less than innocent kiss, and a shiver danced down his spine at the thought that he was the reason the boy before him was unraveling.

He imagined how, the next morning, they would reflect the sunlight as they hung out with their friends, all oblivious but them. How they would glow with joy rather than sinful bliss, turning a dangerous amber in the light. How he would look at Michael, if only for a second, and smile as if he hadn’t wrecked him the night before. Or, maybe, he was testing him; a silent offering hanging in the air between them. If that was the case, Michael would take it in a heartbeat.

 

TWO: His lisp was adorable.

Hands balled into fists, a broken sigh passing through his lips, and Michael knew he was close. An attempt was made to buck up, but he kept his hands where they were on his hips, refusing him that luxury as he sank back down, relishing the moment. Moan sends butterflies fluttering by the thousands in his stomach, and when he comes off once more, a noise of disapproval is made.

“Stop,” he groaned, and while Michael stared, in awe of the disheveled angel before him, he was dying. He hated it, the lisp; he avoided cursed words when he could around others, keeping from showing it off too often, but for some reason, he let it down around him — decided that, if his dick was gonna be anywhere near him, he might as well drop the act (though, Michael didn’t think he had the energy in him to conceal it very well in this moment, anyway). “Stop messing around,” he complained, eventually following up with a hesitant, “Please, Mikey.”

That was all he needed, and with a careful smile, he placed a kiss to his thigh, cooing, “Okay. Okay.” And he was taking him back in, feeling him shudder, triumph washing over him. Until, of course, there was a sharp tug on his hair, and he was moaning against Rich, the warmth in the pit of his stomach spreading, spreading.

 

THREE: He could be very gentle.

Michael, ever the gentleman, rode him through his ecstasy, drinking him up despite the bitterness (because that’s what friends do, right?), only moving away when he was asked to by a very tired Rich. Watching his chest rise and fall, and hear the way he panted as he shakily released Michael from his hold, it was beautiful. Gorgeous, really. Something the Mell was sure he would be down to witness again.

Soon, the other was pulling his boxers and pants back up (a shame, really), and he was being pulled up beside Rich, who had him pinned to the bed before he could process what was happening. And he expected something rough to follow; for his lip to be bitten, or to be harshly ground down on, or anything but what actually occurred. Softly, like he was scared he might hurt him if he wasn’t cautious, Rich kissed him. A hand moved up to cup his cheek, the other gently resting on Michael’s hip as he pressed feather-light pecks to his lips and jaw. And Michael could only sigh, content, and return the gesture when he could.

The hand on his hip began to slowly shift over, palm slipping under the boy’s hoodie to touch his stomach, and Rich sat up, glorious between Michael’s legs. Uncertainly, he asked, “Is it okay if I...you know.” And Michael just gawked at him, until he realized what he was being asked, and in response, he swallowed, nodding. Rich, the hungry ball of energy, who was so loud and blunt and confident and dominant, being like...this. Cheeks became warm at the thought of how they would return to their routines tomorrow, how everyone would see that cocky, dangerous boy. Michael, on the other hand, would see something else.

He would have been far more anxious, if not for the smile the came after, and Rich going in for another kiss. It was Michael’s turn to grab at Rich’s hair, as his hand moved under the waistband of his boxers, stopping briefly, until a second confirmation was given.

 

FOUR: He cared. A lot.

While Michael was practically short-circuiting from all the unfamiliar sensations and overstimulation — Rich’s teeth against his pulse point, occasionally coming up to nip at his bottom lip or pull him into a foreign passion that somehow managed to be ever cautious, praise that sent his heart soaring way too high being uttered between breathes (“You’re doing so good, Mikey,” “Fuck, baby boy, you sound so good,” “You’re beautiful like this,” and so on) — the boy on top of him was trying his best to keep himself contained, as was evident in the gradually more sloppy movements of his hand against Michael. 

Once, he would lean down, sigh ghosting Michael’s ear, and ask a color; fingers pausing, briefly but painfully, and he would always respond, weaker each time he stopped, “Green.” At some point, he’d started to rock against Rich, and it was all so new that, trying to keep himself from going over the edge? Wasn’t going to work. But Rich didn’t care. He just kept marking him, slipping his tongue into his mouth, muttering compliments as if he were apologizing because he was doing something wrong (he wasn’t), and making sure Michael was okay. And he was very, very okay, and no matter how many times he checked, he didn’t get the slightest bit annoyed.

He moaned, feeling himself tremble, grip now on Rich’s back; clutching the fabric of his shirt, trying to ground himself. Head falling back, his breathing grew heavy, and he was losing rhythm embarrassingly quick, and with a quick jolt, he sucked in a shock of air, pretty sure his nails were going to leave marks, even through the Goranski’s shirt. Through the haze, he felt Rich rub the small of his back soothingly, and heard him coo past the thumping of his own heart, “Good job. Good boy.”

He reached up, grabbing either side of Rich’s face. Then, he brought it down, touching his forehead to his, and both boys sighed, melting. Into the bed, into each other.

 

FIVE: He had Michael’s heart, right in his hands. 

With Rich’s face buried in Michael’s neck, breath hot against his skin as he dozed off, he felt like he could pass out right then and there from sheer joy. Reluctantly, he ran his fingers through his hair, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling him closer, valuing the heat he brought with him. Despite the exhaustion that was tugging him down, he was just too at peace, to giddy and blissful and full of euphoria. 

He didn’t want to let this moment go.

Michael kissed the top of his head, muttering a tiny, reluctant, “I love you.”

It was a phrase he would never say in front of anyone else, not about Rich. He wouldn’t even say it to Rich while he was awake. Even in the morning, when Rich woke up before him, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to Michael’s neck to wake him up, whispering lowly, “Morning, baby boy,” he couldn’t get the words out.


End file.
